


Sleepwalking

by Redcrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcrow/pseuds/Redcrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sleep walks which leads to some awkward and interesting events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepwalking

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, there will be more added (but I don't know when) and it will be subject to editing.  
> I know there are issues with pace and changes in POV which are a bit confusing, hence the need for editing.
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I just borrow them from time to time.

It was well known to both Mrs Hudson and now John Watson, that Sherlock did not sleep well. In fact he rarely slept properly at all. There were the 30-40 minute naps on the couch, an hour or sometimes two in his bed when a case was solved and finished but that was generally it.

Very rarely, once in a blue moon rarely, he could and would sleep for 6-8 hours. Neither Mrs Hudson nor John Watson had ever, as far as they knew, witnessed such a rare occurrence. And what they didn’t know was what could happen when Sherlock slept for more than a couple hours at a time. John was about to find out.

It had been a long and difficult case, something Sherlock could really get his teeth into. They had been working on it virtually non-stop for 8 days and John was dead on his feet. He threw himself down in his armchair with an gust of exhaled breath.

When they had finally tracked down the kidnapper and the young boy, John felt emotionally and physically exhausted. He had slept up to 5 hours in every 24, unlike Sherlock whom he suspected had maybe slept for 1 in every 24. John had been dragged away from every meal he had started all week and he didn’t remember seeing Sherlock eat at all. He was starting to get really quite concerned about him. 

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t just have dark circles around them, they were sunken and the usual bright blue/green of the irises were dull and darker. He was visibly thinner, having lost some of his meagre bulk over the last few days. John was determined to make him eat, when he felt he could actually move again and then he would make him rest, no matter how much of a fight he put up, which John fully expected.

So it was with no small amount of surprise that John watched Sherlock stride to his room and unceremoniously fall onto the bed. ‘I’ll get him to eat something later’ John mused as he forced himself out of the chair and across the room to Sherlock’s doorway. Sherlock was already asleep and softly snoring. John was surprised and a little satisfied, he walked around to the end of the bed, gently removed Sherlock shoes and draped a blanket over him. John stopped, gazing down at his flatmate, Sherlock looked different asleep, younger, vulnerable even. John left him to sleep and hauled himself up the stairs to his own room, where he too was soon fast asleep.

It was a little less than 3 hours later when Sherlock’s eyes flew open, he sat up, stiffly, almost mechanically, his movements stilted, awkward. He didn’t turn on any lights and he seemed to be wandering aimlessly around the flat.

John awoke with a start, he was immediately on alert, his soldier training kicking in. The room was dark and the faint glow of his alarm clock told him it was past two in the morning. He groaned faintly, not knowing why he was awake and wishing he wasn’t. John turned to face the doorway and started with a gasp. There was figure standing in his doorway, tall, thin, messy hair.

“Sherlock what the hell are you doing? I really don’t want to be awake right now” The figure didn’t move, didn’t speak. “Sherlock?” John sat up, he could hear Sherlock’s breathing, it was shallow and very slow. “Sh-Sherlock?” John spoke again, his concern now clear in his voice. Still the figure didn’t move, didn’t respond.

Sherlock could hear John speaking to him, he could see John, barely, in the dark room but he couldn’t reply. John rolled off the bed and turned on a small bedside lamp, Sherlock eyes squinted against the unexpected light. This was John’s room, why was he stood in John’s doorway?

Sherlock was gazing at John but there was something wrong about him. He was too still, rigid even, his eyes focused but distant. “Sherlock?” John spoke softly, rising from his bed and walking to Sherlock slowly. “Sherlock are you…awake?” this was asked quietly again and carefully.

John had seen sleepwalking, it was a disorder a lot of soldiers developed, usually after a trauma. Despite his strangeness Sherlock seemed to be aware of him, his eyes followed John. It occurred to John that Sherlock could be experiencing a rarer form of sleepwalking where the sufferer is aware of their surroundings but unable to to respond to anything, similar to locked in syndrome but not quite sleep paralysis.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asked waving his hand in front of Sherlock’s eyes. His eyes did indeed follow John’s hand but no other response was forthcoming.

Oh this had happened before, he was sleepwalking. Sherlock tried to move, tried to control his body but nothing was happening. He tried to speak to John but his throat refused to utter a sound, he turned his gaze on John. Apparently he had control over his eyes and nothing else.

Sherlock watched his right arm reach out to the side as his body turned slightly to face John. His hand came to rest on John’s shoulder, his thumb smoothly running up and down John’s neck.

John stood frozen to the spot, he felt he should be angry, Sherlock invading his privacy and now this strangely intimate touch but he knew Sherlock was not consciously doing any of this. A little voice in the back of John’s head tapped him on the shoulder and whispered ah but his subconscious is likely to be acting out repressed desires.

John shook his head, no it doesn’t mean anything and anyway that wouldn’t make this situation better, it would make it worse….wouldn’t it? Oh for god’s sake stop questioning yourself John and stop questioning the actions of a sleepwalker. He swallowed feeling Sherlock’s thumb run over his adam’s apple. Sherlock stepped towards him, John gasped slightly and unintentionally rocked back on the balls of his feet. Sherlock was leaning down, his face was getting closer to John’s.

Those bright blue/green eyes stared straight into John’s darker blue, their noses barely touching. Sherlock’s lips parted, glistening in the half light and then without warning he turned to the door, his hand dropping from John’s shoulder and he walked stiffly away.

John let out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and stood shaking slightly. What the hell? His thoughts were a riot, he was aroused and he was desperately trying to work out why. John palmed the half formed erection in his boxers, pushing it down. He was flushed but he wasn’t sure of that was part of his arousal or embarrassment, he was not gay, he couldn’t be. He had never found another man even the slightest bit attractive, in that way. Oh god, those eyes, those lips, that skin, he groaned. And then he realised with a growing sense of panic that he was indeed attracted to Sherlock.

John tensed as he realised he had let Sherlock walk away, he growled at himself under his breath and took off down the stairs after him. John caught up with Sherlock half way across the living room and gently took his arm guiding him back to his bedroom. He encouraged him to sit on the bed and then, with hands on his shoulders, gave him a firm shake “Sherlock!” he half shouted.

Sherlock jolted and looked up “J..John?”

“You were sleepwalking, I helped you back here, you should try to rest” John said gently.

Sherlock nodded and laid down without another word. John frowned but he wasn’t prepared to discuss anything now so he left Sherlock’s room, turning back once to see Sherlock’s outline, his fingers steepled under his chin.

Sherlock stared into the darkness, his mind focused on one thing, John’s reactions to his touch. Despite his semi-conscious state, at the time, he had been fully aware of John’s physiological reactions to his touch and he began to catalog them.

Increase in breathing depth and speed - panic, concern or arousal.

Pupils dilated - low light, panic or arousal.

Swallowing, increase in saliva - nausea, panic or arousal.

Increase in skin temperature - panic or arousal.

Slight trembling - panic or arousal.

Not pulling away - arousal.

Sherlock closed his eyes and saw again the deep dark blue of John’s eyes. Why was he torturing himself this way? John was never going to see him as anything other than a flatmate, a friend at best. A friend Sherlock couldn’t afford to lose, couldn’t bare to lose. He groaned and turned on his side, pulling the bed sheets over his his head and waited for the sun to rise.

John climbed the stairs and reaching his room, threw himself onto his bed. What the actual fuck was going on here? He reached for his phone, intending to text Harry. He really need to talk to someone or at least vent about it but then it occurred to him it was stupid o’clock in the morning and he wouldn’t get any kind of sympathy from Harry now. 

Placing his phone back on the bedside table, he stared up at his ceiling, questions pouring into his head. Was Sherlock aware of what he was doing? Did he have …feelings for John? Should John try to talk to him about it. Am I gay, bi…confused certainly…oh god.

John quickly realised he wasn’t going to sleep again that night. It was nearing dawn and he needed a drink, his throat was dry. I need tea. Rolling off the bed and fully aware that Sherlock was probably not asleep he quietly made his way back downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Taking his tea into the living room, John opened his laptop and searched sleepwalking. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly but he made a half hearted attempt to find out if Sherlock was aware of his actions while sleepwalking. It may be easier to broach the subject if John knew a little more.

John awoke to sound of a car horn outside, he jumped and for a brief moment wondered why he was on the couch. His laptop was still open on the table next to him and there was a blanket draped over him. He pressed the fibers of the wool between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock…? It seemed a uncharacteristically, sentimental thing for Sherlock to do but Mrs Hudson would never enter the flat without knocking first. Oh this just brought up more questions…and yet John found himself smiling.

John didn’t see Sherlock again until he was summoned (yes that was a fitting word for it) to a crime scene, some hours later. There he was strutting around the car park, stepping over the body of some poor teenager as if it were nothing more than obstacle in his path. And then of course Sherlock started to relay his deductions to the waiting DI. 

Lestrade was very good at hiding any sign of how impressed he was with Sherlock’s abilities at solving …well almost anything really. John had given up hiding anything long ago but he caught Greg looking at him sideways and realized he was kind of fawning over Sherlock and his words. God he must look like a love sick child, a lost little puppy. Fuck. Pull yourself together John.

Sherlock turned to John then, looked him right in the eyes and beckoned him over to the body. “Multiple injuries, John…” Sherlock gestured over the body pointing out the major ones “..confirm the killing blow and time of death……please.”

Please? Please? Sherlock rarely said please for anything. John had stopped dead and was now gazing at Sherlock open mouthed, his fingers unintentionally brushing over Sherlock’s hand as he pulled on an examination glove. For the barest of moments Sherlock himself looked nonplussed before his expression smoothed over again. He stood, walking towards Lestrade, leaving John to examine the body and pick his chin up off the floor.

Three days later the murder was solved and the guilty party in custody. It wasn’t until Sherlock flopped onto the couch, that he realized he hadn’t eaten or slept for all of those three days. A fear gripped him suddenly, constricting his chest, he almost gasped. Could he afford to sleep? What if the sleepwalking returned? What might his subconscious mind make him do? He sighed, his head hurt badly, he needed sleep, he knew that, knew there was no avoiding it and yet this constriction, this fear continued to hold him.

There was the faint sound of John’s key turning in the lock downstairs. Insisting that Sherlock eat, John had gone to their favourite takeaway and even as the door to 221B closed behind him, Sherlock could smell the crispy duck and hoisin sauce, his mouth started to water.


End file.
